Why can't men just be men any more?

In contrast to the flabby Roger Moore, the contemporary Bond is played by the man-mountain that is Daniel Craig – with a compact, muscular body that might make men and women weep for very different reasons

We hear a lot nowadays about how Hollywood sets unreasonable standards of physical beauty for women, but what about us poor men? The physiques of Zac Efron or Brad Pitt look suspiciously like the product of special effects – plastic bulging muscles defined to the point of pain – and, for some peculiar reason, none of them have any body hair. Every trip to the cinema leaves this average Joe feeling rather depressed. My own physique is classically English: bow legs, scrawny arms and the torso of an inflated balloon. The only six pack I come close to is the kind I drink to make myself feel sexier.

It wasn’t always this way: there was a time when Hollywood stars looked a bit more like the rest of us. Consider that Roger Moore was still playing James Bond when he was 58. Despite the flabby chest and turkey neck, he still seemed to have no trouble attracting women (although one account has it that he quit the role when he discovered he was older than his co-star’s mother). By contrast, the contemporary Bond is played by the man-mountain that is Daniel Craig – with a compact, muscular body that might make men and women weep for very different reasons. How did we get to the point where Hollywood is as demanding of men as it is of women? And is it entirely healthy?

Of course, there have always been musclemen in the movies. One of the pin-ups of the Thirties and Forties was Johnny Weissmuller, an Olympian athlete who swung into women’s hearts playing Tarzan. In the early Seventies, Italian stallion Sylvester Stallone made a screen debut in a soft-core pornographic film, The Party at Kitty and Stud’s (1970), before playing the boxer who wouldn’t stay down in Rocky (1976). But the muscle-bound stars of old were genre characters, rather than all-round actors, and whenever they tried to break free of the sweaty-men genre, critics were usually unimpressed. Arnold Schwarzenegger’s 1994 comedy, Junior, was widely panned – partly because it was about a man who falls pregnant, but also because it required Arnie to play a scientist.

Most pre-millennial actors were athletic or healthy rather than buff, while the more “manly” stars tended to be defined by rugged good looks, rather than brawn. Physically, it is hard to imagine what Ingrid Bergman saw in the chain-smoking Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca (1942), or why the 34-year-old Audrey Hepburn so desperately wanted to snag the 59-year-old Cary Grant in Charade (1963). Those actors who did draw big crowds when taking their tops off were permitted to go on doing so long after they had lost their youthful physique; the Charlton Heston of Ben-Hur (1959) was considerably more defined than the Charlton Heston of Earthquake (1974) – yet the age of his onscreen lovers remained the same.

The problem was that movies were made by male-dominated studios in a sexually conservative era. Up to the early Sixties, the ideal woman was still perceived to be chaste and therefore their capacity to lust was undervalued by the marketing boys. Some male stars still managed to draw huge crowds on sex appeal (from Rudolph Valentino to James Dean), but they were rarely subject to the same degree of objectification as female actors. The sexual revolution of the Sixties was supposed to change all this; suddenly men and women were encouraged to show more flesh and enjoy each other on more equal terms. But Hollywood took a long time to catch up. Tastes and standards continued to be set by men who were thrilled at the new level of sexual possibility, but rather ignorant of what women wanted.

The Bond series is a classic example. It is remarkable to think that Michael Gambon – a venerable actor, but hardly a stud – was seriously considered for the role of 007 in Diamonds Are Forever (1971). When the idea was first floated, Gambon is supposed to have told producer Harry Saltzman that he was unsuitable for the part because he was too bald, had too many chins and had “tits like a woman”. The fear of appointing a man with a little extra weight didn’t stop the studio paying Sean Connery $1.5 million to return to the role instead. In one scene, he undresses in front of a vixen and she exclaims: “Why James, there’s more to you than meets the eye!” The uncharitable might answer: “Yes, about two stone.” When the thinning Connery returned in Never Say Never Again (1983), it also looked suspiciously like he had grown a whole new head of hair.

So how did we get from Connery to Craig, from hairy, slack leading men to hard-bodied models? The answer is marketing. Competing against DVDs, TV and the internet, 21st‑century producers have tried to turn cinema into an event – like going to a theme park (if Citizen Kane was made today, it would be in 3D) – and the demographic thought most willing to pay to experience all the fun of the fair are adolescents. Hence, the target age of most movies has fallen dramatically, driving down the age of the average star in the process.

At the same time, movies have undergone a gender rebalance. Whereas they often used to be made by men for men, they are now increasingly made by men for women. The superhero movies that hit screens in 2012 were unashamedly marketed at women. For instance, there was a time when Spider‑Man simply climbed walls and caught cat burglars; but in The Amazing Spider‑Man, he was transformed into a troubled, tousle-haired teen who just needs to meet the right girl. The studio that made Spider-Man partnered with nail-polish maker OPI for a movie-themed line promoted in women’s magazines. The nail colours had names such as “Your Web or Mine?” and “My Boyfriend Scales Walls”.

The result is that contemporary blockbusters are aimed squarely at teenage girls – think of the insane success of The Hunger Games or Twilight. And the actors picked to star in them are the studio’s idea of what turns young women on. That’s why this phenomenon of the new musclemen matters more than it at first appears. It is great that some of the chauvinism of the past has gone and women now get to drool over stars as much as men, but the obsession with unrealistic, ageless bodies also represents the slow disenfranchising of older parts of the audience. When you pass the age of 21, many movies simply aren’t made for you any more. They are aimed at the same kids who shop at Abercrombie & Fitch, served by topless boys with washboard stomachs.

The impact on the quality of the movies is measured in a loss of wit and charm. It’s a controversial observation, but I’ve found the recent Bond films most un-Bond‑like. They’re ultra-violent and humourless; bone cracking against bone as Mr Craig unleashes his taut body like a whip. There was a time when Bond was a man in a safari suit with a gun in one hand, a Martini in the other, a cigarette in the mouth and a cheeky glint in his eye. On skis or in space, he was a gentleman whom the ordinary punter could both admire and aspire to be. If Roger Moore is still available to play the part, I for one would pay good money to see it.